


A Very GrimJop Christmas

by slantedwonders



Category: The Musketeers (2014), The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Allusions to sex but no actual sex, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Even more of that, Feelings, Fellas this is softer than I intended, Feron and Gaston are little shits, Gift Giving, He's like the Christmas fairy in this, How to say I love you without actually saying it, Humor, I lied he IS the grinch, Lots of it, Lucien might be the grinch, M/M, No Beta, Random appearance of Henry Peglar, Sarcasm, Swearing, We just need to get a soft holiday story out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slantedwonders/pseuds/slantedwonders
Summary: When Feron points out that Lucien's gift for Thomas is lacking, he must brave the wilds of Christmas shopping to find something new. Will he succeed? Will he experience some unexpected self discovery? Will innocent decorations survive?
Relationships: Lucien Grimaud/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	A Very GrimJop Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I did to get myself through the holidays. It's ridiculous. Don't take it seriously.
> 
> I would like to dedicate this, again, to the GrimJop Discord. Lots of headcanons from our discussions influenced this fic, which is VERY loosely inspired by the shopping scene in Love Actually.
> 
> Happy Holidays, y'all!

It snows the week before Christmas and the entirety of the city forgets how to function. Lucien has seen, with his own eyes, no less than three people nearly eat shit on the barely wet pavement. It's an astonishing number, really, considering Feron's office is only twenty minutes from the flat. If Thomas were here, he would hiss in sympathy and offer his arm politely to unsteady little old ladies. Then, with a bright smile, he'd con Lucien into carrying all their bags.

(He doesn't mind, really. Thomas should have everything he wants. If helping unfortunate idiots who don't understand _ice_ brings him joy, who is he to deny him?)

But Thomas isn't here right now and he doesn't have the patience to deal with this ridiculousness.

Feron had needed something taken _care_ of a few weeks ago and Lucien was more than happy to help. He's just trying to collect what he's owed or else he wouldn't have ventured out at all. The office will close for the holiday and then Feron and his brothers will go to Paris until mid January, so, if Lucien wants to be paid, he's got to collect today or tomorrow.

(It cannot be tomorrow. Tommy is taking the day off and they will absolutely not waste it on a man like Feron.) 

Lucien slips into the building via a side entrance and uses a pilfered keycard to call an elevator in the hopes of avoiding most of the security team. He'll be on the cameras for sure, but they can be doctored or deleted. It takes significantly more effort to delete a man's memory and they _would_ remember him. Identification is required for entry and Lucien's image (salt crusted and dripping boots, black jeans, and a well-worn leather jacket) definitely doesn't fit with the wealthy businessman clientele of the complex.

Besides, one can never know who is paying who anymore. All it takes is the wrong report to the wrong person and Lucien has to move cities again.

(Thomas doesn't know what he does and he doesn't offer any insights even though it _is_ likely he has some inkling. Lucien loathes the idea of uprooting Thomas from the life he's built for himself and refuses to think of any scenario where he would be left behind.)

The obnoxiously cheerful secretary is the most benign human being he has ever met. Her overly bubbly greeting of, "Good morning, Mister Grimaud!" makes Lucien _literally_ nauseous. She has decorated her desk in all manner of garish garlands and baubles with tinsel and glitter. She's placed, on the corner of the desk, a _teeny tiny_ Christmas tree complete with several _itty bitty_ wrapped packages beneath it. Lucien inhales deeply to calm himself, a technique Thomas has encouraged him to work on, and it is a terrible mistake. The cloyingly sweet scent of fake baked goods lodges itself into his nose and he has to physically keep himself from gagging.

"I'll buzz you in!" she says and reaches with one white and red striped fingernail for a button before Lucien's wits catch up to him.

"No, no!" He puts out a hand. "I'm only here for-"

"Monsieur Feron _insisted_ you be sent in when you arrived," the woman giggles, actually fucking _giggles_ , before pressing the button on the intercom with a wink.

_Fuck._ Lucien can't hold back his grimace. He just wants to leave and get away from all this idiocy. Back at the flat he'll wait for Thomas to get home, curl up with him on the couch, draw him a hot bath, and then make love to him in it.

Feron's voice comes over the speaker with, "Thank you, Yvette. I'll be out in a moment."

A moment is a moment too long to spend in the company of a woman who chatters incessantly. She talks about the weather and the coming holiday. She excitedly points out the new candle her husband gave her ( _that's_ the smell) and explains, in detail, how she makes hot cocoa with her _children_.

(Dear God, this woman has procreated? The world is truly doomed.)

Feron saves him when he opens the door to his office. He's leaning heavily on his cane, no doubt stiff from the cold and damp. If he's hoping the sight will garner him some form of sympathy, he's sorely mistaken. Lucien will never forgive him for keeping him here longer than he needs to be.

The office is more opulent than it has any right to be. The desk is too large and he's certain Feron doesn't do any actual work at it. The overly plush chair is more like a throne and the low coffee table and collection of couches off to the side gives the impression of a lordly study. (No doubt that is the aesthetic Feron is going for.)

"Lucien!" Feron cries with open arms as the door closes behind him and, for a split second, Lucien is terrified the man will try to hug him. He doesn't, thankfully. "You're looking well. How's this weather treating you?"

Lucien sighs and purses his lips. "Feron," he says sternly. "I just want to be paid."

Feron looks slightly annoyed as his expression darkens. He makes a great show of patting himself down before he finally produces the check. He hands it over with a wry smile.

It's _significantly_ more money than the agreed upon fee. Feron just smirks at him. "Consider it a Christmas bonus for services rendered." He turns away as Lucien pockets the check. "Stay for a coffee?"

There are two things Feron and his brothers have good taste in: wine and coffee.

(Thomas only rarely drinks coffee. He'll make it for Lucien if he asks and it is always perfect, but he dislikes the idea of Thomas creating anything they cannot _both_ enjoy. So, he rarely asks and, instead, settles on strong black tea.)

Staying for a coffee means making the coffee, not just for himself, but also for Feron who is reclining on one the couches. He is, perhaps, the only host who will offer you a drink and then demand you make it yourself. Lucien brews two espressos and fixes one with cream and sugar. That he knows how Feron takes his coffee is a point of frustration, but a necessity in their business arrangement.

He passes over the cup and takes the seat opposite the other man. They sit in silence for a moment before Feron says, "So, what did you get your boy toy for Christmas?"

"Don't call him that," Lucien snaps in reply.

"What shall I call him, then?" Feron is smiling openly. "The last time we spoke about him you were adamant that he wasn't your boyfriend." 

"Don't talk about him and, then, you won't have to call him anything." He ignores the deep chuckle this gets and sips his espresso. The sharp bitterness on his tongue is an excellent counterpoint to the velvety rich texture. If it wasn't so good, he'd have thrown it in Feron's face at the mention of Thomas. He refuses to speak about Thomas with this man. He will not sully him by pulling him into their conversations. It's none of his business anyway.

Feron leans forward to place his empty cup on the table. He grimaces in discomfort and leans back, but a smirk is still playing at the corner of his mouth. "You did get him an actual gift, of course."

"Of course," Lucien replies because _of course_ he's got something special planned. He intends to pamper Thomas from dawn until dusk, to scarcely let him out of the bed. He'll be sweet and sleepy and perfect.

"It's not your dick, is it?"

Lucien glares over the table.

"Oh," Feron sighs with feigned sympathy. "Oh, your _poor boy_. He's probably got you some lovely sentimental thing and has a gorgeous meal planned and all you mean to do is take your trousers down and say, 'Happy Christmas, here's my cock.'"

No. No, that is absolutely _not_ what he intends to do. It won't be anywhere near as crude as Feron is making it sound. He doesn't know them or how they are together. It will _not_ be like that. 

Right?

He feels suddenly uncertain. (Disappointing Thomas is something he cannot fathom. He's too important to let down in any capacity. Thomas has been disappointed by men before, found them lacking, and has been hurt by that. He will not be one of those men. He _refuses_ to be.)

"Lucien," Feron begins softly. "You've been together for nearly a year and this is your first Christmas. Sex just isn't an appropriate gift."

"Of course, it _can_ be," comes an airy voice," In the right circumstances."

Oh, sweet Jesus. Every single deity must hate him and they must have settled on making today the worst day of his life because, now, Gaston is standing in the doorway to the conjoining office. He looks absolutely ridiculous wearing a fucking fur coat like he's trapped in the arctic. He comes to stand in front of the desk and leans against it dramatically.

"If you're planning on doing something out of your comfort zone, it can be _quite_ the treat," Gaston continues. "But if you're not, and you have sex every day, it could end up being...well...the sex you would've had anyway." He scrunches his face in a way that he, no doubt, thinks makes him look cute. 

(All it does is make Lucien want to rip his eyeballs out.)

But the little shit is onto something. He hadn't planned on doing anything particularly adventurous and they _do_ have sex nearly every day. _Fuck._ For all their pomp and circumstance the idiots are right. It isn't enough.

"Fuck," Lucien whispers to himself before throwing his espresso cut into the table. He's halfway across the room, fully intending on slamming every door he can, when Feron calls, "Wait!" 

Lucien stops and wheels around. He clenches his fists at his sides and holds his shoulders in a stiff line of tension. He needs to get out of here before someone gets hurt.

"Gaston, be a dear, and hand Lucien that box." Feron gestures to the desk where a navy blue package tied impeccably with a metallic ribbon sits. "A gift," he continues, "for you and your boy toy."

The package is held out to him and Lucien snarls as he reaches to take it, but Gaston doesn't relinquish his grip. (And, okay, maybe he's stronger than he gives him credit for because he doesn't flinch when Lucien pins him in a murderous glare.) Gaston smirks slyly and hums, "Do you really have sex _every_ day?"

Lucien snatches the box and grits out between his teeth, "I fucking hate you both."

He does slam the door on the way out. He also knocks that stupid tiny tree off the secretary's desk as he stomps past. Her shocked cry brings him some joy at least.

\---

He hates this, absolutely hates this.

Standing in the entryway to a store that is completely decked out for Christmas, Lucien wants to die. There are decorations on everything. Garlands adorn every doorframe, railing, and counter. Hundreds of ornaments hang from them in every color known to man. Lights blink off and on in every direction. There are no less than 85 Christmas trees, each one decorated differently, and they _all look fucking stupid_. There's some horrible pop rendition of a song he's never heard before (and desperately wants to forget) playing at an alarming volume.

It all makes Lucien want to turn around, walk out into traffic, and let a truck hit him.

(Thomas did decorate the flat, but, like everything he does, it was done tastefully. There's just a bit of green, some holly on the mantle and a wreath on the door. A sprig of mistletoe sits just before the kitchen entryway and Lucien uses it to his advantage as often as he can. The tree Thomas picked out is small and compact and provides just enough fresh pine scent to be pleasant. It's _cozy_. Not this...this _nightmare_.)

Lucien has no idea where to begin. He's gotten presents for Thomas before, but never blindly. There's usually some indication that he wants or needs something and Lucien doesn't let him languish long. All Thomas has to do is say the word.

(For his birthday, Lucien had given him a collection of bath bombs from a very stinky store simply because Thomas had expressed the desire to take a bath. He'd thrown his shirt away the minute he got home, certain the scent of the place had fused with the molecules of the fabric, but it turned out to be a good choice. Every time Thomas takes a bath now there's a 50/50 chance Lucien will end up in the tub with him and, when he doesn't, Thomas always emerges warm and so very, very soft.)

Chocolate is always a failsafe, but Lucien buys Thomas chocolate during every grocery trip. It really wouldn't be anything special. He'd have to buy the whole of a Chocolatier or fill the bathtub with it. ( _That's_ an idea. Chocolate bath. Although, the cleaning required may not be worth all the fun. Okay, he'll file "chocolate bath" under "maybe" for now.) Lucien looks around the store and decides, with a sigh, that he'll just have to go section to section and see what they have to offer.

First up, clothing. Thomas has a very particular style, in that, he always looks perfect. Lucien, essentially, only ever wears black. He's not sure he trusts himself to pick something out that Thomas will like besides, maybe, socks. But socks aren't sexy. So, no clothing. (He does contemplate, as he passes the lingerie, how Thomas would react to something silky and lacy. This is probably also inappropriate. He'll file that away under "definitely later".)

Shoes fall under the clothing category and are, therefore, a no. He steers clear of the children's section for fear of encountering an actual, well, _child_. Kitchenwares are a possibility. Thomas likes to cook and he is a phenomenal baker, but, as he stares over the plates and pans and spoons, Lucien is certain Thomas already has the majority of these things. Electronics seem too impersonal and they don't need any furniture.

Cologne?

Walking toward the perfume counter is like walking toward the gates of Hell. He knows there are individual perfumes and colognes that smell good on their own, but, in the thick miasma of all the mingled scents, there is nothing discernable about any of them. It's a crime against anyone who has a functioning nose.

Head swimming, Lucien becomes suddenly aware of a woman behind the counter. _Oh shit._ She's trying to talk to him. He can't pay any attention to her because, on her extremely ugly sweater, there are lights. Actual lights. Actual _blinking_ lights. 

It's too much. He can't do this.

No longer certain he's awake, he walks away in a daze. He slides one hand under the hem of his shirt and gives the bare skin of his hip a hearty pinch.

It hurts. 

_Damn._

He'll just go buy every item from Thomas's favorite Chocolatier. There will be a chocolate feast waiting on Christmas morning. Maybe he'll go back to Feron and ask him to buy out the shop. Then Thomas could have the whole thing! Forever! No. That's ridiculous. Thomas wouldn't appreciate a family run business getting bought by a larger corporation even if it _did_ mean his own unlimited access to the finest chocolates.

It's hopeless. With a resigned huff Lucien makes to leave only to find himself in front of the jewelry counter. Jewelry is something he hasn't considered. Truthfully, Thomas doesn't wear much of it, but who's to say he wouldn't appreciate something delicate and shiny?

Currently he's standing in front of the watches. Would Thomas like a watch? He's never really worn one and Lucien knows fuck all about them, but there's something appealing about the way their faces look up out of the display. There are...a lot of options. They come in all sizes and shapes. The fonts of the numbering differ on each one. Even the bands, kept in a separate small case, come in a myriad of colors.

"Do you need help, sir?" a soft voice cuts through Licien flurried thoughts.

The young man behind the counter is so unlike the other employees and customers in the store. He has warm round eyes and a gentle smile. His plain red jumper compliments his neatly trimmed auburn hair and beard. There is no pomp or festivity around him. Something in his stance feels familiar.

"Can I help you, sir?" the man tries again. His perfectly pinned name tag reads "Henry."

The situation is _dire_ and this may be his last chance, so he inhales deeply and says, "I need a gift."

"Well," the young man replies. "You're certainly in the right spot. What type of gift are you looking for?"

Lucien just stares at him coldly. (What kind of question is that anyway? If he knew what he was looking for, he wouldn't need help.) Henry blinks once and clears his throat. "Let me...uh...rephrase. _Who_ are you buying for?"

Ah. Easier to answer. "My…" (Okay, maybe _not_ easier. As much as Feron likes to bust his balls, he is right. Lucien doesn't like to call Thomas his boyfriend. It just doesn't feel right. It isn't _correct_. But what else can he call him? His significant other? No, that sounds like he's hiding something. Lover? That's too dramatic.) "...partner?"

(No. That's not it.)

A gentle smirk tugs at Henry's lips before he prompts kindly, "Your _business_ partner?"

Another glare from Lucien is all he gets in reply.

"Romantic partner, then."

"Sure," Lucien grunts. It doesn't sound right, either, but this interaction has already taken longer than he wants it to.

"Is your partner in need of a new watch?"

Silence extends between them again. (A feeling settles in his chest, hot and tight. It is absolutely _not_ panic. But, seriously, does Thomas need a watch? He can't fail. Failure means he's not worthy of Thomas.)

"Perhaps," Henry begins after several seconds, "other accessories may be more appropriate?" He glances as Lucien's hands, held firmly in a white knuckled grip at his sides. "I see you favor rings. Perhaps your partner does also?"

(A ring? That doesn't...that isn't… They're not ready for that. _Are they?_ No. They can't be. It's too soon. Right? Okay, maybe that feeling _is_ panic.)

He shakes his head with one stiff motion. The young man tries again, "Bracelets?" No. "Earrings?' Nope. "Necklaces?"

(The image of Thomas with a delicate silver chain around his neck, some beautifully crafted pendant hanging from it, as he leans over Lucien floods his mind. It's a very distracting thought.)

Henry clears his throat, attempting to regain his attention. "Cufflinks or tie clips?"

"No!" Lucien says more forcefully than he means to. Thomas' siblings seem only capable of getting him cufflinks or tie clips. (Lucien doesn't mind them all that much, but, _good lord_ , Thomas got four new pairs of cufflinks for his birthday alone!) He has an ever growing collection and, soon, he'll be able to wear a different set every day of the year. The young man laughs when Lucien tells him this and it's light and airy. He _hates_ it and how at ease it makes him feel.

"Hm…" Henry contemplates for a moment, watches Lucien look back at the display before them, and continues, "Perhaps you need a timepiece."

Lucien looks up sharply. (Oh, come on! This guy was supposed to be different! Not the usual morons you encounter day to day, but an actual nuanced human.) He opens his mouth, but a swift hand gesture silences him. 

"Not a watch," he says, anticipating Lucien's chiding. "A timepiece. Follow me."

Henry moves around the counter to the other side. Lucien follows and as they go Henry continues, "John, my husband, is a bit old fashioned in his tastes. I gave him one of these last year," he stops before another, smaller, display, "and he's used it every day since." Beneath the glass of the display is a collection of pocket watches. "They're unique, but functional."

What they are is _beautiful_. They seem more elegant than any watch, more sumptuous. Some are finished in gold, others in silver, one glossy black and another a deep copper. The faces range from classic to complex. There are marble and matte faces, all with numbering done in a variety of different fonts. All of them are sleek and elegant.

(Again the image of Thomas overwhelms him. Thomas standing in his finest suit, looking at his pocket watch, only to glance up and smile. Warmth fills Lucien. He cannot name it, but it's familiar, common. His desire to leave increases with his desire to see Thomas.)

"Shall I give you a moment?" Henry says and, no, Lucien doesn't need it. He knows exactly which is perfect as soon as his eyes land on it. He points to a silver watch with black matte lettering. The face is a detailed antique world map done in a soft patina.

"An excellent choice, the world." Henry smiles, then clarifies, "The design name is The World." Lucien starts. The world? Something clicks when he hears it, _something_ makes more sense. (He has no fucking idea what and it really is very frustrating. This day needs to end.) "Would you like it gift wrapped?"

Lucien physically recoils from the counter and, with a grimace, says, "You're not going to spin it in gold and douse it in pourporie are you?"

The young man laughs, genuinely amused. "No. I'm just going to tie a nice red bow on the top." 

(That's doable. Nothing ridiculous.)

When he hands the wrapped box over he smiles widely. "Your man is going to love it."

Lucien stares a moment then says, before he can stop himself and with no small amount of amazement, "You _are_ an actual nuanced human."

"Thank you?" Henry replies with a puzzled look.

Lucien nods curtly as he takes the box, turns on his heel, and bounds out of the store. (Fucking _finally_. Goodbye, Hell! It was a valiant effort on the world's part to convince him to throw himself off a roof, but not today!) 

As he makes his way back to the flat he's filled with a sense of satisfaction and an odd slightly bubbly sensation lingers throughout the rest of the day. (He's not anxious about this gift. He's _not_.)

\---

If you had told Lucien a year ago that he'd be attending a Christmas Eve brunch, he likely would've called you a fucking liar and punched you in the face. It would have seemed a worse punishment than that time he got arrested in Paris and the police lectured him about his "nefarious" ways. 

And, yet, here he is.

(When they first got together he was very clear about not enjoying celebrations, and, so, Thomas always asks if Lucien wants to attend gatherings or parties. He does it in an unhurried way that relays no expectation. It is Lucien's decision and his wishes are never questioned. But, for his birthday, Thomas had prepared a simple dinner, served good wine, and closed out the night with a soft kiss and a "Happy Birthday, darling."

It was the first time Lucien had ever done anything to herald his birthday. He hadn't known a celebration could be two men and a roasted chicken and it made him want to celebrate every _day_ with Thomas.

And _that's_ why he agreed to brunch, despite the children and the _dog_.)

Currently, he's standing awkwardly at the perimeter of the room while Thomas plays with his niece and nephew. They're too loud, the children, but Thomas is laughing and that sound alone is enough to calm his nerves. Thomas's brother-in-law is shoveling sausage after sausage into his face like he's never eaten them before. (It's mildly grotesque.) Thomas's _actual_ brother is sitting sour faced on the opposite side of the room. (Lucien doesn't hold it against him. The children really _are_ very loud and the dog is essentially sitting in his lap while it begs table scraps.)

Thomas's sister is an exception to everything. She, immediately upon their arrival, handed Lucien a mimosa. (Mimosa is a loose term. It's really just a glass full of champagne and he thinks maybe they've come to an understanding.) She, like her brother, is an excellent cook and her quiche is almost worth the noise. She even, when they exchange gifts, presents Lucien with a very fine bag of espresso beans. (They _definitely_ have an understanding.) 

Thomas gets ( _surprise!_ ) a pair of cufflinks and a scrapbook made of his late mother's favorite recipes. (Lucien loves and hates this. He loves the joy that light's his face, but hates the tears that follow.)

When they leave, several hours past Lucien's usual tolerance (owing most likely to the copious amounts of _decent_ champagne), they run nearly headlong into one of the neighbors. They're dropping off cookies or some shit, but Lucien could care less when Thomas's sister introduces them as her "brother and his boyfriend." (It's odd. It's strange. It doesn't _fit_.) They exchange pleasantries and Merry Christmases as they leave and _it doesn't matter_. They'll likely never see this person ever again, but, still, the whole thing sits strangely with him until Thomas tucks a gentle kiss to cheek and breathes, "Thank you."

(All that matters is that Thomas is happy, that he gets what he wants. And, alright, Lucien is glad to have contributed to it.)

Brunch on Christmas Eve means spending Christmas Day exactly how they please. He has Thomas all to himself and they spend nearly the whole morning in bed. After they do finally get up, Thomas sets out several of his mother's recipes and opts to make scones. (He has a scone recipe already, but says this one will be closer to what his mother used to make when he was a child.) It's a wonder how Thomas manages to bake anything with how Lucien strives to distract him. He pulls him close to inhale the scent of his hair and peppers kisses down the side of his neck. Thomas allows this for a time, but eventually banishes Lucien from the kitchen with feigned annoyance.

The scones are good (not as good as the other recipe, but Thomas seems pleased with the nostalgia, so he doesn't say anything) and they eat them warm with butter and jam and strong hot tea. They curl up on the couch, Thomas lounging against his side, and he has never felt so calm.

"Shall we open presents," Thomas says and gestures to the few wrapped packages beneath their tree. Lucien doesn't want to move away from the warm wall of Thomas, but he shifts out from under Lucien's arm. He pads over to the tree and collects the five presents to arrange them on the coffee table. He sits down next to Lucien.

"This is from Feron," Lucien points to the blue and silver package. "It's probably wine."

Thomas chuckles. "Well, he does have excellent taste." He points out a white box and says, "This is from Sophia." The next box is red and, apparently, from Francis. (Thomas's bosses spoil him and, Lucien won't lie, he's jealous of how close they are. _Francis_ is too fond of Thomas in his opinion, but he'd never come between them for fear of causing Thomas any pain.)

"And, this," Thomas says as he presents Lucien a small lidded navy blue box, "is for you." 

He takes it and holds it in his hand. The box itself is lightweight and simple. There's little wrapping or ribbon. He pulls off the top and turns out a leather bound ring box. Inside is a platinum signet ring bearing the image of a directional compass.

(Rings have always been Lucien's thing, his single vice. A way to treat himself for a job well done. None of them really _mean_ anything. They're just pretty things that piqued his interest. None of them are _this_.) 

He looks up and realizes he has been silent too long. There is real fear in Thomas's eyes, which is something he has never seen before. (And immediately never wants to see again.)

"It's alright if you don't like it," Thomas says very quickly. "It's just...you're a reminder of which way is North. Of...of which direction I should be going." He sighs and looks away. Tucking a stray hair behind his ear, he murmurs, "It's sentimental. Silly, really." 

Lucien hates himself for being the cause of this distress. He reaches out and curls his fingers around Thomas's chin and forces his head up. 

"No," he says with more force than he intends, but holds the blue gaze as he methodically removes each of the rings he's already wearing. With a soft tinkling sound he deposits them on the table and slides the new ring firmly onto one of his fingers. (It's heavy on his hand, but it feels right. Now, he'll only wear the things that Thomas gives him.) "It's perfect."

Thomas blushes (actually blushes and it's the _cutest_ thing Lucien has ever seen) before taking Lucien's unadorned hand and kissing his empty knuckles.

He reaches over to fetch the gold box with the neat little red bow when it hits him like a bullet to the gut. (Which is something Lucien _has_ experienced before and _never_ wants to relive.) There is a reason why nothing seems to adequately describe Thomas, why hearing that boy say "the world" sat so oddly. Lucien inhales shakily. His chest feels tight.

(Oh, God, what if he's having a heart attack? What if he just keels over right in front of the Christmas tree? No, that can't be it. It's something else. It's got to be. _Emotion?_ That's it! And more if it than he's ever felt before. It's overwhelming. But what emotion? Because it's absolutely not _love_. It's _not_.

_Oh._

Fuck.)

He thrusts the box into Thomas's hand and blurts out, "I never know what to call you, Tommy."

For all the ways that Thomas had learned to read Lucien, he looks extremely confused as he replies, "But...you're the only person who calls me Tommy."

Oh, he doesn't know how to say this. Lucien runs a hand over his face before continuing, "That's not what I mean. Your sister called me your boyfriend. Is that...is that how you describe me to your family? To your friends?"

He gets a few blinks because Thomas lets out a deep breath. "Lucien, we don't have to define our relationship in any way we don't want to. If you don't want to use terms like that, then we won't."

He is not explaining this very well at all. He tries again, "I _want_ words to describe you, but nothing ever fits. Nothing is…" He trails off, licks his lips, and thinks. "Nothing is _important_ enough for you." He glances at the box in Thomas's hands. "But I think I know the words now."

Thomas is shaking slightly as he pulls the ribbon and unites the bow. Much like Lucien had, he tips out the smaller box within. He opens it slowly, revealing the smooth glinting metal of the watch. Sitting innocent on the velvety lining of the box is a simple card that reads, "The World." Thomas sits the box on the table and gingerly takes out the watch. He cradles it in his hands for a moment before opening it. He stares at the map on the face, eyes tracing the lines. In the silence that stretches on the only sound is the ticking of the watch. Eventually, Thomas picks up the card again, turns it over, and reads the brief paragraph on the back.

"The world," he whispers, then looks at Lucien. " _Your_ world."

"My world," Lucien replies before he has a lap full of Thomas.

The kisses are deep and urgent. Lucien is barely able to pull away for breath before Thomas is pulling him back in. When they finally part, they're both panting. Thomas rests their foreheads together before he breathes into Lucien's mouth, "Take me to bed."

He doesn't have to be told twice.

Later, _much_ later, when they get out of bed (again), they open the rest of the presents. Feron did, in fact, gift them an exquisite French red, which will go well with the little roast Thomas is preparing. Francis gave them a very fine bottle of whiskey. Sophia spoiled them both with cashmere sweaters, a red one for Thomas and a black one for Lucien.

They open the wine while dinner is cooking and Lucien hears his phone go off. It's a text from Feron that reads "Merry Christmas! I hope your boy toy likes his gift" followed by several very inappropriate emojis. (He hates this man. Truly _hates_ him. If he could go through the phone and throttle him, he would.) But, as he walks back into the kitchen and Thomas looks up at him with a smile, he thinks he could spend every Christmas like this.

Just him and his world.


End file.
